


love the sin, love the sinner

by silkspectred



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Crying During Sex, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Lack of Communication, M/M, Miscommunication, POV Steve Rogers, Panic Attacks, Pining Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Smut, Sparring, old man Tony, oversensitive Tony, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11452065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkspectred/pseuds/silkspectred
Summary: It keeps happening. Not often, just once or twice a month, but it keeps happening. Always in the same way: it’s unplanned, sudden, unexpected, Steve is surprised and eager, his dick goes from zero to one hundred in two seconds, Tony’s touch is electric, everything he does drives Steve crazy, but he never lets Steve kiss him, he very rarely looks Steve in the eye, he never talks, never makes a sound when he comes, never mentions it later.





	love the sin, love the sinner

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. There's a lot of sex in this fic. And Steve and Tony not talking about it. Until they do. The usual.
> 
> It's set post-Avengers and doesn't take into account MCU canon post that movie, but there are some references to Avengers Assemble (the cartoon), the Marvel Netflix shows, and the comics. I took the liberty to (mis)quote some lines and mention some characters, but you don't really need to know that stuff to understand the fic.
> 
> Thanks to [cptxrogers](http://cptxrogers.tumblr.com) for reading this and encouraging me <3
> 
> Also, this is my first stevetony fic. Yay!

There’s been tension for months. Not the kind of tension they experienced on the helicarrier that first day, a different type. After New York they started talking, started agreeing, or at least disagreeing in a productive way; there were lingering touches and lingering gazes, soft smiles and whispered tactics, murmured ideas.

_Jess Jones needs to be trained, Shellhead, she’s strong but has no technique._

_Yes, Winghead, but I just don’t think you’re her type of teacher._

Now there are little gestures too. Steve goes with Tony to one of the Maria Stark Foundation galas, because Diya from PR thinks Captain America’s presence can affect how much money rich people feel like donating to charity (she is right). The next day Steve finds a new uniform in his room, the one that yesterday was still weeks away from being ready, made of a new fabric Tony developed, more breathable but still bulletproof. A week later, during breakfast, Steve mentions that he’s out of some art supplies, but the mission S.H.I.E.L.D. assigned him to prevents him from doing anything about it at the moment. When he comes back, everything he was planning on buying is already on his desk with a note that only says  _T_. Steve asks JARVIS if he can access Tony’s penthouse while Tony is in R &D, and leaves a yellow rose on his pillow.

So when it finally happens, it’s not really a surprise. They’re in the gym, sparring, and everything seems normal until they’re both on the floor, Steve on his back, Tony on top of him between his legs. But instead of trying some move to keep Steve from freeing himself, instead of scrambling to his feet, instead of doing any of the million things Tony could do in a situation like this– Tony sets his jaw, braces his hands on the floor on both sides of Steve’s head, takes a deep breath through his nose, and presses his hips into Steve’s.

Steve was already half-hard from the adrenaline of their fight, he tells himself it’s normal and it happens very often to a lot of men and it’s nothing to be ashamed about, really, but it never happens when he’s sparring with Carol or Sam or Luke, only Tony, for some reason. For some damn reason.

Tony is ahead of Steve, already rock hard in his yoga pants (and even that, Tony in  _yoga_   _pants_ , seriously?), and the heat, the pressure, the weight of Tony’s body on him, Steve is on the same page in the span of seconds, and he would chalk it up to the serum but… yeah, it’s not the serum.

Tony looks at him like he’s asking for some sort of permission to go on, like they can still come back from this, he can say his knees just gave up on him, apologize, pretend he didn’t mean it, pretend it never happened. Steve looks up at him, quickly, afraid that a sign of acknowledgment could break this spell. So he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod, he just averts his eyes from Tony’s and pushes his own hips up, gives back what he received and lets out a breath of relief when Tony just looks at his face for a moment and then starts  _moving_ , once, twice… seven times, and Steve really wishes his Captain America brain would just shut up for a minute, he doesn’t need to write a report about  _this_.

Then Tony suddenly sits up and Steve has only time to think  _no, please, no,_ before he realizes that Tony is shoving his pants down his thighs and scrambling at Steve’s waistband, urgent, trembling in a way that makes it look like he’s keeping the worst of it under control and this is what spills out because he just can’t hide it all.

Tony avoids looking at Steve, gathers saliva in his mouth and spits in his hand, takes both their dicks in his fist and starts stroking, fast, and Steve’s brain after that,  _oh_ , Steve’s brain is just useless. Tony’s hands aren’t small but his fingers can barely circle around his own dick and Steve’s, and  _oh my god_ the things he’s doing are just. Just.

Steve surges forward, unable to stop himself, places his hands oh each side of Tony’s face and drags him down for a kiss, but Tony moves away before their lips can touch, looks down, keeps stroking. It happens in seconds and Steve doesn’t even have time to process it, to be disappointed or sad at the rejection because he’s very suddenly coming, soaking his shirt, hitting Tony in the chin with stripes of white. Tony buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, opens his mouth and licks behind Steve’s ear. Steve shudders, Tony comes without making a single sound.

Afterwards, it’s not awkward. Tony makes a small joke, helps Steve up. Steve heads for the gym showers and Tony for the elevator. In the following days nothing really changes between them, maybe they’re a bit more polite than usual, but they’re normal, really. And if Steve goes tense every time Tony enters a room, it’s no one’s business but his own, okay? Okay.

But Tony really seems normal. He looks at Steve when he talks to him, passes him fruit during breakfast, discusses tactics with him like they’ve done thousands of other times before, they talk about the team, about improvements for their weapons, about the last super villain that really thought he was gonna rule the planet starting from Manhattan, about movies and books and food and everything. So what if Steve can’t sleep at night, thinking about Tony’s skin on his? What if he can still feel Tony’s tongue on his neck, the scent of his come, his hand on his dick? What if he sometimes thinks,  _okay, but if that was going to be our only time together, I wanted to be able to kiss you, even just once_. The pang of regret is eating him alive.

But before Steve can drive himself completely crazy about it, something else happens. It’s almost a month after their first ( _only_ ) time together and they’ve just finished a sparring session that didn’t end with them covered in each other’s come, if only because Matt and Jess were also there as far as Steve is concerned. After everyone leaves, Steve goes to take a quick shower, but he lingers under the hot spray of the water, lets his muscles relax, and it still feels impossible that he  _can_ , that he’s allowed this small pleasure. He’s distracted, so he doesn’t hear Tony opening the glass door of the shower, he only suddenly feels someone behind him, calloused hands caressing his shoulders, and he should really do something about the fact that now apparently he can recognize Tony by touch alone. He’s so fucked up.

He lets Tony manhandle him into position (he would let Tony do anything to him, really, holy shit) and he finds himself facing the wall with his hands splayed on the white tiles, his elbows and knees locked, his legs spread apart. Tony slips under his arm, kneels down between his thighs and then Steve’s brain short-circuits again because goddammit, Tony’s  _mouth_. Everything in Steve’s world is wet and warm, his dick slides easily in and out of Tony’s lips, saliva gathering there and making it all slick and hot, and  _oh_ , this is perfect.

Tony keeps moving his head, his eyes closed, but then he looks up at Steve for a moment, places a hand on Steve’s ass and pulls him in and Steve gets it,  _fuck_ , he gets it, and Tony nods and quickly averts his gaze, which, okay. Steve braces himself on the wall and starts fucking Tony’s mouth, gently but determined, careful but with no hesitation.

He goes slow at first, to gauge how much Tony can take, yes, but also to look down, to fix his eyes on the point where his flesh makes contact with Tony’s, where his dick slides almost all the way out and then again in Tony’s hot mouth, to feel the head drag against Tony’s soft palate, Tony pushing his tongue up against Steve’s length while hollowing his cheeks and sucking, careful to cover his teeth with his lips.

Steve looks and looks and looks, thanks his eidetic memory and curses it at the same time, because he wants to remember this image forever, yes, but –  _shit_ – he’s gonna remember this image forever and he’s so, so screwed.

Tony splays his left hand on Steve’s thigh, grabs the meat there, a silent,  _keep going_ , and Steve doesn’t need to be encouraged twice, he starts fucking Tony’s face in earnest, faster, still thoughtful of Tony’s comfort but that bar has been placed much higher now. In an attempt to gain some control over what’s happening, Steve pulls one of his hands away from the wall, places it carefully on Tony’s head and waits for a reaction. Tony’s eyes are closed again, and he jumps a bit when he first feels Steve’s hand in his hair, mostly out of surprise, but then he does nothing. Steve takes it as permission and grows bolder, grabs a fistful of Tony’s hair and  _yanks_ , keeps Tony’s head in place, his mouth where he can fuck it, his body trapped between the wall and Steve. And for the first time since Tony came into the shower, for the first time Steve’s ever heard, Tony moans, deep in his throat. And for a moment, just for a small moment, Steve gives in to the illusion that maybe he gets to keep this, that he gets to keep Tony even after their orgasms.

Steve feels something move against his right leg and he realizes it’s Tony’s arm, Tony is touching himself in a brutal, almost punishing way, Steve can hear the slap of skin on skin;  _doesn’t it hurt_ is a fleeting thought in the back of his head because he feels the heat in his belly coalesce into something electric and he barely has time to grab the base of his dick to slip out of Tony’s mouth, but Tony’s hand moves urgently from Steve’s thigh to Steve’s ass and he pulls him in again like he did earlier and Steve comes down Tony’s throat, Tony’s tongue caressing him still, his cheeks sucking all rational thought out of Steve. Tony swallows the most of Steve’s come but some of it slips through his lips, slides down his chin, catches in his goatee and Steve can only murmur, “Fuck,” against Tony’s silence.

Tony suddenly shudders, briefly, and then goes very still and very stiff and Steve feels something hot and liquid, something that is  _not_ water, spray the insides of his thighs, his balls, and –  _oh god_ – his ass. Steve’s hand still braced on the wall makes the tiles crack.

Steve pulls out of Tony’s mouth, releases his hair. Tony opens his eyes and smiles, says something easy and friendly that doesn’t allude to what they just did, quickly exits the shower and goes wash himself in the next stall.

That night, while he keeps tossing and turning in his bed counting sheep, Steve realizes that he not only has never kissed Tony, but he has also never touched his dick.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. If Tony wants to set some boundaries, if there are things he doesn’t like to do then Steve is more than willing to respect his wishes, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the problem here. He can’t help but feeling rejected, in some way he doesn’t really understand, by Tony, and at the thought a small tear slips past his control and down his cheek.

—

It keeps happening. Not often, just once or twice a month, but it keeps happening. Always in the same way: it’s unplanned, sudden, unexpected, Steve is surprised and eager, his dick goes from zero to one hundred in two seconds, Tony’s touch is electric, everything he does drives Steve crazy, but he never lets Steve kiss him, he very rarely looks Steve in the eye, he never talks, never makes a sound when he comes, never mentions it later.

What they do, though, that changes: Tony avoids being touched by Steve for a couple more times, but then he starts to slowly allow it. Steve gets Tony to fuck his fist, and Tony is different that time, his eyes are not just closed, they’re shut tight, there’s a deep furrow on his brow, his face is twisted in a pained expression.

The time after that, Tony sucks Steve off against a wall, Steve is so on edge that his orgasm hits him after only a few minutes, and when he comes to, he fixes his eyes on Tony, who is jerking off with that same merciless and ferocious pace he set on himself that time in the gym shower. Steve crouches down next to him, slowly brings Tony’s head up with a hand under his chin. Tony’s eyes flutter open and before he can close them again, Steve holds his gaze for a moment, then looks down at Tony’s lap, then Tony’s eyes again. Then he licks his lips. It’s a silent question, a voiceless request for permission, but it’s a very obvious and clear one, and Steve has no intention of proceeding until Tony allows him to.

Tony nods, once, sharply, and Steve places a hand on his neck, under his ear, holds him in place, brings their foreheads together. He doesn’t try to kiss Tony, doesn’t want to ask for more trust than he’s already been given. Slowly, he lowers his head until he’s almost lying stomach down on the floor, propping himself up with his elbows. Tony’s dick is inches away from Steve’s face, Tony’s hand is still moving fast and unforgiving. Then suddenly Tony stills, his whole body goes tense, and Steve knows it’s now or never. He leans down, opens his mouth, takes the head of Tony’s dick between his lips and sucks, once. Tony’s come is hot and thick on his tongue, the taste isn’t as bitter as he thought it would be. He lets his mouth be flooded, swallows as much as he can, lets the rest run down his chin freely, shamelessly, makes a mess of himself, lets it drop back down Tony’s length, on his hand, on his neck. And again, like some strange force beat it out of him, like he’s violating some sort of cosmic law just by thinking about allowing himself this, Tony moans, and Steve still isn’t sure if it’s out of pleasure, of pain, of both.

Their progress, after that, is pretty clear to Steve: Tony needs time to get used to Steve’s touch, needs to build up some form of physical intimacy, needs to be the giver at first so he can be comfortable receiving. Steve is willing to be patient, he always asks Tony’s consent before doing anything new, but he tries to kiss Tony a couple more times, more out of a mixture of mindless arousal and muscle memory from the few other times he has had sex than anything else, but Tony always shifts away, and Steve tries to swallow his disappointment down and  _deal_.

But still, Steve kinda feels like shit afterwards, every time, and yet he doesn’t have it in him to put a stop to it, he wants Tony. If this is the only way he can get him then he’s gonna be a big boy and suck it up and be grateful that life has at least conceded him this.

So yeah, Steve feels like shit. Steve feels like shit in the deserted gym and the attached showers multiple times, he feels like shit on his couch and on Tony’s couch, in Tony’s penthouse against the glass wall ( _Jesus Christ_ ), in Tony’s penthouse on the rug in front of the fireplace, in Tony’s penthouse on one of the bar stools, on a S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier, on  _the roof of Avengers tower_ (which, honestly, what the fuck), against a table in Tony’s workshop right after a mission with Steve still in his uniform and Tony still in most of his armor, one night against the fridge in the communal kitchen (which isn’t just fucked up but also very possibly unsanitary, and Steve feels so bad afterwards that he stress-cleans the whole room after Tony leaves), and the list goes on.

The first time Tony puts his fingers inside of Steve, Steve sees stars. When he gets to reciprocate, Tony’s eyes are squeezed shut and he’s gritting his teeth, he trembles and shakes for minutes after coming. Steve offers to hold him through it, but Tony doesn’t really want to be touched.

The first time Tony fucks Steve is at night, on the floor of Steve’s bedroom. Steve gets the idea mostly because it’s practical, since the bedside table with the bottle of lube is right there. Steve can’t really tell how they got naked, it’s all kind of a blur, it happens so fast. In no time, he’s lying on his back, the carpet soft on his skin, Tony looming over him, two fingers already making their way inside Steve.

The first push of the blunt head of Tony’s dick is a heady mix of pleasure and pain that makes Steve go limp. He spreads his legs further apart, brings his knees up to accommodate Tony’s body into his. Steve has his arms above his head on the carpet, and Tony carefully circles one of his wrists and holds it down, hard. Steve feels something that can only be described as bliss rushing through him. He looks up at Tony and he’s very surprised to find that Tony is already looking at him. Steve gets lost in his eyes, it’s the longest and deepest Tony has looked at him ever while they have sex, and Steve is determined to make it last as much as possible, to use it to tell Tony all the things he can’t say with words.  _You’re safe. I’ll protect you, always. I’ll never do anything to hurt you in any way. You can trust me._

Tony starts moving, slowly, and so, so carefully, like he’s afraid.

_Don’t be afraid._

Steve locks his feet around Tony’s back, pushes him deeper still. Tony braces himself with one hand on the carpet and one holding Steve’s wrist, and then he’s not afraid anymore.

Tony’s thrusts grow hard and fast, like his hand has always been, and the rhythm is driving Steve out of his own mind, the pleasure building up and solidifying inside of him into something that makes his skin burn, his vision blur, his breathing ragged.

It’s dark in Steve’s bedroom, the only source of light is nestled in Tony’s chest. Steve doesn’t think, and places a hand on it.

What happens next feels like a bucket of ice water. Tony gasps, like he’s being choked, pulls out of Steve suddenly, without controlling his movements (and,  _ouch_ , that’s not pleasant), scrambles on the floor away from Steve, sits with his back to the wall and brings his knees close to his chest; his eyes are screwed shut and he’s still gasping, trying to control his breathing with no success and he’s murmuring something that Steve can’t quite catch.

Okay, Steve severely misjudged how comfortable Tony would be with someone touching the device that keeps him alive, makes him pilot the Iron Man suit, is the source of at least 60% of his traumas.

_Shit._

Steve gets up, walks closer to Tony making some noise so Tony doesn’t get startled. He musters up his gentlest voice.

“Tony? Hey. It’s Steve. You’re safe. You’re in my bedroom, we are in Avengers tower. Everything is fine, you’re not in any danger. Tony?”

Tony is still breathing shallow and fast, there are tears on his cheeks. Steve takes a deep breath himself. Okay.

“Tony, concentrate on your breathing. Follow me, let’s breathe together, slowly, slowly,” Steve says, and starts inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, and despite the fact that he can’t still keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, Tony does as instructed, and calms down a bit. “There you go, you’re doing great. That’s really good, Tony, really good.”

Steve doesn’t touch Tony, but sits close to him and keeps guiding his breathing. When Tony opens his eyes he can’t quite look at Steve, but Steve grabs Tony’s shirt from the floor and offers it to him. Tony puts it on uncertainly.

“I’m going to the bathroom to get you some water, okay? I’m not leaving you, I’ll be back in a minute, is that alright?” When Tony nods, Steve gets up.

Tony takes the glass of water with trembling fingers, drinks it slowly. Steve passes him a damp towel, and he wipes at his face, the cold clearly soothing on his heated skin.

“Do you want to get up? Let’s get you to bed, okay? You can rest here, I won’t leave you,” Steve smiles, but Tony is still not looking at him, he keeps his head down like he’s ashamed. Steve guides him towards the bed, still without touching, waits for Tony to crawl under the covers, then walks to the other end of the room and puts on some clothes, drags a chair to the side of the bed. Suddenly, Tony speaks.

“Come here. Please?”

Tony’s voice is rough and cracks, but Steve leaves the chair and goes lay down next to him under the covers. They’re facing each other. Tony whispers, “Thank you,” and falls asleep.

When Steve wakes up, the sun is just coming up, and his bed is empty.

–

The next time Steve sees Tony it’s almost four days later, and Tony has apparently spent all that time in his workshop. He emerges one morning when Steve has just got back from his run and the kitchen is still deserted, except for a sad and sweaty super soldier who’s trying to beat some world record for how much water he can drink in one sitting. This is how Steve thinks of himself now. Mostly the sad part.

When Tony realizes who is in the kitchen, Steve can tell he wants to run away, but then he puts a chagrined smile on his face and soldiers through it. No one can say Tony Stark is anything but brave, or that he ever backs down from a challenge. They make small talk for a minute, exchange a few updates regarding the team. Tony makes himself a smoothie; Steve looks at him, his dirty shirt, his greasy hair, the blurred shape of his goatee, the streaks of motor oil covering his arms. Tony clearly only washed his hands with the dish soap he keeps in the workshop bathroom before coming up to the kitchen.

Steve’s heart is beating so fast. He’s in love, so sue him.

The words come out of his mouth before he can stop, before he even realizes he’s saying them. “I’m sorry about the other night.”

Tony puts his glass down on the counter with a soft  _thud_ and an air of finality, his shoulders tense up under Steve’s scrutiny. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again and turns to look at Steve. “Thank you. For helping me,” he says, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat.

“No problem. I’m glad I could.”

Tony lowers his gaze again, but there’s a small, sincere smile on his face. He leaves without saying anything else, and Steve goes to his room to take a shower, and isn’t as sad anymore.

–

The next time it happens is almost two months later (yes, Steve  _was_ driving himself completely crazy wondering if Tony actually hated him now, if this whole thing between them had ended that night, with that mistake), and they make it to Tony’s bed by some miracle. It’s just after lunch when Steve goes up to the penthouse to tell Tony that Kamala texted saying she’s coming for dinner with her physics homework (“Urgh, her teacher is an incompetent and questions my methods.” “Most people are incompetent compared to you when it’s about physics, Mr. Big Brain.”) but at some point the conversation turns into Tony shoving his hand down Steve’s pants, which, okay, okay.

Tony is sucking on Steve’s neck, like he often does, and Steve places a hand on Tony’s ass and lifts him up, Tony puts his arms around Steve’s shoulders and his legs around Steve’s hips. Steve turns and presses Tony up against the nearest wall, breathing hard.

They look at each other. Steve leans up. Tony leans down.

They stop with their mouths separated by only an inch of thick, warm air. The moment breaks, Tony lets his forehead rest against Steve’s.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Steve says, he just can’t keep it in, doesn’t even really want to.

Steve leans back but doesn’t let Tony down, walks towards the bedroom still holding him up, lets them both fall heavily on the mattress.

When Tony enters Steve’s body this time the room is full of light.

Tony fucks Steve hard, and if he was a lesser man Steve might think the lack of finesse is a belated punishment for that unwelcome touch that still makes him feel guilty, but at this point he knows that’s just how Tony likes it. Steve likes it too.

He feels something touch his head, and through the dizziness of pleasure he realizes Tony is stroking his hair, staring at Steve’s hairline like it holds all the secrets of the universe, his bright eyes wide with wonder.

Something deep in Steve’s lower belly shatters, releases a spike of energy that rushes through him like an electric current, makes him shiver. Tony doesn’t stop thrusting, smears Steve’s come on his abs, rubs it up to his chest and  _oh god, this can’t get any dirtier_ , but it’s like the mere thought is a new challenge for Tony, who lifts his hand up and sucks his fingers into his own mouth, tasting the product of Steve’s pleasure like it’s a religious experience.

Steve stares up at Tony, completely rapt, and groans, Tony is still fucking into him relentlessly and  _there_ , there it is, Tony is tensing up and coming, eyes shut and teeth gritted, deep inside Steve. Tony buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and Steve caresses his back through the aftershock of his orgasm, murmurs  _it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay_ , tries not be overwhelmed himself by all of this.

Almost two minutes later and Tony’s body doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping with the shaking, Tony is silent but his breathing is ragged and he’s still hiding his face in Steve’s neck. Steve can’t really tell how much time has passed, but it must be at least ten minutes before Tony stops trembling, his dick has long since softened and slipped out of Steve by itself. Tony gets up, doesn’t look at Steve, says, “God, I need a shower,” with a fake smile on his face, and goes into the bathroom without another word.

Steve starts gathering his clothes with a sigh and wipes Tony’s tears from his neck with the palm of his hand.

–

In the following weeks, Steve kind of goes through the motions when it comes to Tony. As usual, Tony acts normal with him, but Steve feels like some form of very delicate equilibrium has been broken, like Tony knows that  _crying during sex_ revealed something to Steve, something about this whole messed up thing between them, and Steve knows that Tony knows that Steve knows.

And there’s also the fact that Steve told Tony that he had missed him, revealing something himself despite the fact that Tony didn’t acknowledge it in any way.

The thing is, Steve can’t figure out what exactly the problem is. If there even is a problem. Maybe Tony simply doesn’t love him, considers this whole thing just casual sex, and there’s nothing deeper than that. Maybe Tony has sex-related traumas that he doesn’t want to talk to Steve about. Although this doesn’t fit the narrative of Tony Stark, playboy extraordinaire but… well, it’s not like the Captain America comic books are an accurate depiction of his life and character, so it’s pretty easy to dismiss it all as a press myth. Tony has been with Pepper, briefly… Steve tries to imagine how the sex could have been between them, but he feels uncomfortable and rude, so he stops that train of thought. It’s just…

In some way, it’s like Tony keeps testing himself, seeing what he can handle each time, experimenting like any scientist would. It’s not really about intimacy, Steve thinks, he’s pretty sure Tony would agree that you can touch someone’s soul while sucking them off, penetration isn’t some higher form of sex act. But the physical sensations  _are_ different. Erogenous zones and all that. And yes, Tony looks blissed out whenever Steve fucks into his mouth, but he’s pretty sure coming inside Steve made him feel a whole lot of new different things, from a purely sensual point of view.

So maybe it’s that. Maybe Tony is very sensitive, gets really overwhelmed and worked up during sex, to the point of tears, and needs to build trust, go slow, step by step.

But why doesn’t he want to kiss Steve? That still doesn’t add up. It makes no sense. It’s unlikely that it’s a germ thing, Tony has put his tongue inside Steve’s  _ass_ , and good God Steve still gets goosebumps thinking about that time.

So in the end, it’s just weird. But Steve decided long ago that he isn’t going to say anything about it, that he’s going to respect Tony’s boundaries and not ask about any of them. Not about the no kissing rule, not why he avoids looking at Steve, why he keeps as silent as possible, why there’s some unspoken law that forbids them both to talk about all of this. And Steve could, really, he could simply go  _fuck it all_ and just ask Tony, demand an explanation, he has the right to it. But he is scared. After that night when he triggered Tony’s panic attack (and Jesus, Steve would kick himself in the face if he could) he is afraid that the wrong word at the wrong time could put an end to this whole amazing clusterfuck. Like this, he still gets to be with Tony. Sporadically, quickly, with Tony acting as closed off as any human could possibly be during sex, but he gets something. Sure, he feels like he has to pick up the pieces of his soul every time and put them back together after the devastation laid by hurricane Tony, but still. It’s Tony. Steve can’t say no, can’t bring himself to do it. Doesn’t want to at all, actually.

So it goes on. Their activities vary now, depending mostly on the place they find themselves in, if they have lube on hand or not, if they have to be really quick about it because Fury is waiting for them in the conference room.

But Steve starts to wonder what it would be like to come inside Tony, you know, just because he really likes feeling like a kicked puppy, and because that’s the thing that never happens, and, sure, it could just be that Tony doesn’t like bottoming, plain and simple; not everything Tony does has some weird, hidden motivation that Steve isn’t privy to. But Steve wonders, and the more he wonders the more it doesn’t happen.

Until, well. It does.

It’s a rainy day. Big, dark clouds have been covering the sky since the early morning, the rain hasn’t let up for a moment, lightning and thunder chasing each other between the skyscrapers.

Steve has spent most of the day in his room, listening to the sound of the water hitting the windows, reading, catching up on work, getting so bored that he doesn’t even want to head down to the gym and let out some energy because he feels like he has no energy at all. He’s tired from doing basically nothing the whole day. He makes himself a sandwich and eats it while going through his sketchbook.

He draws the city skyline multiple times, using different styles and colors, but after a while his heart isn’t in it anymore, and he closes the sketchbook, puts it back in its drawer in the desk. Steve picks up his favorite pencil and walks to his bed. From the bottom drawer of his bedside table he takes out another sketchbook, hidden behind his socks. He leafs through it.

This is his guilty pleasure, his greatest shame, Steve doesn’t know how to define it. It’s where he draws Tony. Everything about Tony: his clever hands, his bright eyes, his nose, his hair, his face, his muscled shoulders, the arc reactor in his chest, the curve of his back, his wiry thighs, his lean legs, his bony feet. Tony hunched down at a table in his workshop with three thick books and four screens in front of him, Tony with his tongue poking out from his lips while he’s concentrating unscrewing something deep in the Iron Man armor, Tony covered in grease, Tony in the gym, Tony aiming repulsors at the Sinister Six, Tony in a designer suit at an Avengers press conference, Tony naked in the shower, Tony jerking off, Tony smiling, Tony crying, Tony with his head in his hands.

And then at some point, Steve started drawing himself. Just parts of his body at first, Tony’s lips around his dick, Tony stroking them both together, the drawing cutting at Steve’s chest. Then Steve started sketching his own face, with more and more details as the weeks went by and this sketchbook became more wish fulfillment than fixing memories to a page.

There’s them having sex, yes, in ways they have and in ways they haven’t ( _yet_ , Steve can’t help but hope). But mostly, there’s Tony staying. There’s Tony looking at him straight in the eye, Tony laughing while Steve’s inside him, there’s Tony with his mouth open in a moan, or a scream, Steve can’t decide. There’s Tony being the little spoon, Tony sleeping with his face buried in Steve’s ribs. There’s Tony waking up, Tony bringing breakfast in bed to Steve. There’s Tony offering Steve a flower, eyes bright with happiness and love. There’s the two of them out on a date, sitting at a fancy restaurant, and on the next page they’re at a crappy hole-in-the-wall italian place that Tony has randomly decided has the best tagliatelle al ragù in the city, while Steve just laughs because Tony thinks it’s cute to be this rich and eat there… except those actually end up being the best tagliatelle al ragù Steve has ever had.

There’s a love life that Steve dreams of, but doesn’t have. He has bits and pieces of it, but not the full picture. And this is the only way Steve can find to cope with the fact that he can’t have what he wants, and yet he still feels guilty about this, like these pages are some ugly part of him screaming that Tony isn’t enough, which is not true. Tony is everything to him. He’s his best friend.

Steve reaches a blank page and starts drawing some lines, with not much thought behind them. Someone knocks softly at his door. He closes the sketchbook and puts it under a pillow, goes to see who it is.

It’s Tony. He doesn’t look nervous, not exactly, but he’s usually more controlled than this. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days, which isn’t much for Tony’s standards, but his eyes are red, his head looks too heavy for his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, one of Steve’s favorites, a light grey Tom Ford three-piece with two buttons, a white Yves Saint Laurent shirt underneath, the dark red Brunello Cucinelli silk tie, custom italian leather shoes. And really, the fact that Steve can be this accurate about Tony’s clothes…  _fuck_.

Steve gestures for Tony to come into the room and Tony does, without saying anything, without really looking at Steve. He sits on the edge of Steve’s bed, fiddles with his tinted glasses in his hands for a few moments and then puts them in his pocket, sighs.

“They didn’t sign.”

Oh, so that’s why Tony is upset. The big I’m-buying-this-whole-grocery-store-chain-in-particular-because-I-saved-a-nine-year-old-girl-from-a-burning-building-once-and-she-told-me-she-was-alone-at-night-because-her-mom-was-working-shitty-hours-so-they-could-afford-food-and-I-just-couldn’t-fucking-stand-it business.

“I’m so sorry Tony. There’s nothing to do?”

“Nah, it’s actually not half as bad as my face makes it look. My guys are working on it, it’s just a legal hiccup, but I thought it was a done deal, so, you know.”

Tony shrugs and looks down at the carpet, Steve walks up to him, crouches down in front of him. Slowly, like Tony might break, like Steve’s heart might break, he places a hand on Tony’s knee. When Tony does nothing, Steve kneels between Tony’s legs, rests his cheek on the inner muscle of Tony’s thigh. Tony lifts his hand, uncertain, lets it hover in the air for a moment, then buries his fingers in Steve’s hair, kneads his scalp.

The life that Steve dreams of, the life that only exists between the pages of his secret sketchbook, the life that he keeps hidden in his sock drawer like a shameful secret, that life, suddenly materializes in Steve’s room. It’s in the heat radiating from Tony’s hand and into Steve’s head, it’s in the softness of Tony’s silk pants on Steve’s cheek, in Tony’s aftershave filling Steve’s nostrils, in Steve’s hand still resting on Tony’s knee, in the comfort of the silence between them, in the muscle memory that comes from knowing each other intimately, in the rain washing over the windows.

That life refuses to stay hidden, is called out of its drawer by tender touches and careful understanding. It claims its own existence, demands to be acknowledged, crashes into Steve’s room and makes the biggest mess possible, so it won’t go unnoticed again, so no one can pretend anymore. It wants to be real, so it makes itself real, despite all the precautions Steve had taken to ensure it would stay just a fantasy.

“I love you.”

It escapes Steve’s lips, like so many other things he shouldn’t have said; it slips away from his fingers like so many other things he shouldn’t have done.

Steve barely realizes that he said anything at all. It’s the other Steve, the one that is made of pencil lines and got his happily ever after with his Tony, that speaks through him, claims his place in the real world. A happiness made of paper and buried under cotton is not enough for him.

“What.”

Tony has tensed up, is pushing at Steve, wants to get up.

“What.”

Steve is still kneeling on the ground, he’s confused, trying to buy some time but… it’s done. It’s over.

“What did you just say?”

“I’m sorry, Tony, listen–”

“Why would you even say that?”

And that’s it, really. That’s the moment. To hell with it.

“Because it’s true. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me?”

And honestly, Tony doesn’t look mad. He looks sad, but also like he’s about to explode.

“You. You love me. As in. We are friends. Right?”

“No,” Tony’s face crumbles, and dammit, Steve keeps fucking this up, “I mean, yeah, we are friends, but I didn’t mean to say that I love you as a friend.”

“Then…?” Tony makes a face, like he really can’t think of any other possible option here.

“Tony,” Steve gets up from the floor and walks closer to Tony, takes his hands in his. Tony is numb and pliant, Steve could pick him up and place him over his shoulder with minimal resistance. Not the right mental image for the moment, but you get what your brain gives you. “I meant to say. I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time, actually. Maybe even before that first time in the gym.”

And yeah, Tony’s head is definitely gonna explode. He puts a hand on his chest, over the arc reactor, and starts rubbing at it, loosens his tie with his other hand, undoes the first three buttons of his shirt. He walks over to Steve’s desk, takes his jacket off and carefully drapes it over the chair, then does the same with the vest. He goes back to sit on the bed, resumes rubbing at his chest.

Great. So now Steve gave Tony a heart attack.

Tony looks up. “You’re not joking, right?”

“No, Tony, I’m not,” Steve says, his voice soft and sad. He sits next to Tony, leans to the side to rest his head on Tony’s shoulder. Tony turns slightly to look at him, his lips brush on Steve’s hair.

Steve kisses Tony’s neck, slowly, as delicately as he can, his lips barely pressing at all over Tony’s skin. He works his way up over Tony’s jaw, his cheek, his ear, his temple, his forehead. Tony is like a puppet under Steve’s mouth, the only sign of acknowledgment comes from his barely-there breathing, the air still between his parted lips.

Tony closes his eyes.

Steve keeps kissing his face, the grey hair at Tony’s temples, the lines at the sides of his nose, the sharp edges of his goatee, the little dimples in his cheeks. It’s slow, but not uncertain, and Steve knows everything is going to shatter in a moment. Tony is letting him say goodbye.

Steve stops, leans back, looks at Tony even though Tony can’t look back right now. Says what must be said.

“I am in love with you, but I understand if you don’t feel the same way. We’ll work it out. Right?”

Tony is hesitant for a moment, then opens his eyes and looks at Steve.

“You gave me a yellow rose.”

_What?_

“What?”

“Months ago, after I bought you art supplies. You gave me a yellow rose. For friendship.”

“For– For gratitude and affection. It was supposed to mean affection.”

“It’s just that a yellow rose, you know, it’s not necessarily for  _romantic_ affect–”

“I left it on your  _pillow_ , Tony,” Steve takes his head in his hands, props his elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched low, sadness and resignation evident in the shape of his back. “God, what a mess,” he sighs and sits back up. “Anyway. I’m sorry. Really. I’m sure you have a lot of work to get back to so I won’t keep you.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Tony lowers his gaze, fiddles with his hands. Opens his mouth as if to say something else, then thinks better of it and closes it again.

Slowly, and very, very carefully, Tony reaches up to intertwine Steve’s fingers with his own, stares at their hands. Steve can’t breathe. This can’t possibly mean–

Tony leans in, kisses Steve at the corner of his mouth, Steve can barely feel it, it’s so delicate. Tony’s mustache tickles at Steve’s skin.

“Tony–”

“I lo–,” Tony pauses, grimaces, sighs, takes a couple of deep breaths, steadies himself, “I love you too. As in, I am in love with you. Too.”

It’s like a punch to the gut, if a punch to the gut was the best thing that could possibly happen to anyone and you spent the last two years dreaming of taking one from a very specific person.

Steve surges forward, places his hands on Tony’s neck, looks at his face searching for an answer to his question. Tony nods once, and Steve doesn’t need anything else.

The kiss is very slow at first, tentative, uncertain in a way they have never been when doing far less innocent things. Steve presses his lips to Tony’s, Tony’s scent fills his senses, makes him dizzy with desire, with happiness.

Tony opens his mouth just enough for Steve to catch his bottom lip between his, suck on it with the barest hint of teeth.

That’s what does it.

Tony kisses back, holds onto Steve as if he might run away, licks into his mouth like it’s the cure for every illness and Tony is the most sick man in the world.

Steve grabs at Tony’s clothes, yanks at his loosened tie, starts undoing Tony’s buttons but he’s not really in control of his strength at the moment and he feels some of them shatter between his fingers. Tony doesn’t seem to care, he’s pulling at Steve’s sweater like it personally offended him.

Steve breaks the kiss, stands up, undresses in under a minute like the perfect soldier he is, always quick and efficient when necessary. Tony just stares at him. Now he can.

“It’s the first time you’ve dared to look.”

Tony’s face falls, Steve didn’t want it to sound like an accusation but his brain is slow right now and he doesn’t really know how to phrase it better. Tony sighs.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just. That first time in the gym I just felt, well. You looked at me like you loved me, and I couldn’t risk believing that. So I tried to stop looking at you. I was afraid I’d let something stupid slip out of my mouth like I always do, so I kept my mouth shut too. It’s stupid, I know, I–”

“It’s not stupid. I mean, it’s ironic, really, that you didn’t consider the possibility that I looked at you like I loved you because I actually loved you, but to be honest… It’s such a  _you_ thing to do.”

Steve is smiling, easy and soft, still completely naked in front of Tony, and Tony can’t help but huff a small laugh in reply and shake his head.

Tony walks up to Steve, goes on his tiptoes so he can kiss him, takes his time, goes as deep as he can, presses his clothed body to Steve’s skin. When he pulls away, he lowers his head, looks at Steve’s chest, caresses it with his hand. He looks thoughtful, but Steve can’t say what he’s thinking about.

Tony walks to the chair he used as a valet stand and slowly takes off the rest of his clothes, arranging them with care. When he is finally naked he turns to look at Steve, who’s looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What? This is a nice suit, and you already ruined my shirt.”

They look at each other in silence for a few seconds, and then they can’t hold their laughter in anymore, they let it flutter over them, fill the room, die against the ceiling.

Steve takes a moment to look at Tony’s body as well, slides his fingers, feather-like, over his right arm, blue with half-healed bruises. The result of their last fight with Doom and his bots. Dear Victor is gonna pay for those the next time Steve gets his hands on him.

Tony lets Steve take his hand and guide him to the bed, falls on top of him and presses his hips into Steve, like he did that first time, and yet not at all like that first time. Steve groans, deep in his chest, and reaches into his nightstand for the bottle of lube he keeps there, in the first drawer. Steve passes the bottle to Tony, who takes it uncertainly, stares at it, sits up, then pushes it back into Steve’s hand.

“You don’t want to–”

“No, no, I do, I just. I was just wondering. Did you notice a, uh, a pattern, let’s say, to our activities.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t want to risk too much so I tried to see what I could handle each time,” Steve nods, so Tony continues, “But we never did it like–”

“I figured you prefer the other way.”

“Yeah, I– I don’t, I mean, I don’t have a strong preference, either way, it’s just that it– it can be– it can get too much for me so I–”

“Okay. Okay. So you want me–”

“Yeah, I want you to.”

“Come here.”

Tony crawls back on top of Steve, all hot skin and soft muscles, the hard edges of the arc reactor digging into Steve’s chest, Tony’s goatee scratching at his neck.

Steve holds Tony tight, his hands roaming on Tony’s back, down and up again and again. His body feels small against Steve’s, he is relaxed but there’s an underlying tension in his bones, Tony is trying to hide it but isn’t doing a very good job of it.

Tony dips his head down to kiss Steve, buries his hands in Steve’s hair to keep him in place.

Steve moves quickly, coats his fingers with lube, reaches down Tony’s body, smears lube between Tony’s cheeks and massages the puckered skin there before pushing one finger in. He looks at Tony’s face: his eyes are shut and his mouth closed tight, he’s holding his breath and has gone very stiff.

Well, that’s just not right.

“Hey. Hey, look at me,” Steve’s voice is nothing but a murmur, but it latches onto something deep inside Tony, snatches the cap off everything Tony is trying to keep bottled up, releases all the tension at once: Tony’s eyes fly open and he stares at Steve, his mouth twists in a gasp, his breathing becomes ragged and shallow with pleasure, his body goes limp, melts in Steve’s arms.

Tony moans, loud and deep and so unlike anything Steve is used to hear from him, so different from that one other time he got to do this to him, before, when Tony got so worked up that he could barely stand Steve’s touch. Steve pushes his finger deeper inside Tony, experimentally, looks, transfixed, at Tony’s face, every breath and moan and groan like a declaration of trust, a promise, a commitment.

Steve slides another finger in, and Tony bites at his skin, and Steve almost comes right then and there.

Steve takes his time fingering Tony, slowly, but he knows what he’s doing now and there’s no hesitation in his movements, pushes deep and deep and deep as far as he can go, as far as Tony can take it. There are tears in Tony’s eyes, and Steve pulls him in, hugs him even tighter with his free arm.

“Hey. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he whispers an inch from Tony’s mouth and Tony just looks at him, completely lost, sweat peppering his forehead, pooling at the hollow of his throat. Steve sucks at it, savors the salty taste of Tony’s skin. “I’m not leaving you. I’m here. I love you.”

Tony sobs, lets a tear roll down his face, musters up all the strength he has left in him, all his brainpower, and pushes out the words like it hurts to say them but he has to nonetheless, “Love you, too.”

Steve is not a poet, he is versed in different kinds of art, but this is it, this must be what centuries of literature are about: holding someone, that someone holding you back, promises of never letting go.

They stay like that for a while, with no rush, Steve working Tony open with clever and deliberate flicks of his wrist. Tony’s inner walls feel hot and tender against Steve’s fingertips, and when he finds Tony’s prostate he rubs at it very gently, just once, and Tony jerks in his arms, his whole body shudders and Steve holds him through it all, true to his promise. When Tony seems to relax again, Steve goes back to the knot of muscle deep inside him, and the more Steve touches it, the more Tony gets used to the sensation, handles it better, with deep groans leaving his chest to die into Steve’s mouth, against his skin.

“Okay, you feel ready to me, what do you think?” Tony’s eyes go wide and he almost looks worried for a moment, like he didn’t expect that all the things they did up to this point would actually lead to  _this_.

“If you don’t want to anymore or you changed your–”

“I want to. I want to. I haven’t changed my mind. It’s just–”

“I know, I know.”

Tony smiles.

Steve rearranges their bodies on the bed, lifts Tony like he weighs nothing to him (he doesn’t) and makes him lie down on his back. Steve hovers over him, balancing himself up with one arm on the mattress. He takes the base of his dick with his other hand, lines himself up, looks down at Tony’s lap and–

“You’re not hard anymore.”

“I’m not thirty-five anymore.”

Steve huffs a small laugh through his nose, shakes his head, worry leaving his face as quickly as it clouded it; he doesn’t really need more explanation than that. Tony nods at him, a silent  _go on, it’s fine_.

He stares into Tony’s eyes while he pushes in painstakingly slow, and stops when the crown of his dick catches at Tony’s rim. When he feels the ring of muscles’ initial resistance finally give in, he releases the breath he was holding, tries to follow his own advice and relax, calm down a bit, but–

He is inside Tony. For the first time. And already he wants to crawl into Tony and stay there forever, doesn’t want to leave if it means that this is gonna stop, that he won’t feel like this all the time. He feels euphoric. He feels a kind of happiness he didn’t know humans could feel, didn’t know existed at all. Having sex with Tony has always been incredible, heady, an impossible mix of wild emotions that Steve didn’t know how to control. But this. This is love.

In every drop of sweat, in every soft touch and whispered word, in every shallow breath and deep kiss, in Tony’s tears, in his soft dick and his jokes about his age, in their quick understanding of each other, in their smiles and playful banter, in every careful explanation, in every tiny hesitation that disappears when one hand holds the other, when their eyes meet, in all of that– there’s love.

And Steve can only marvel at how easy it is to love Tony now that he knows he’s loved back: before, everything felt confusing, and complicated, and impossible, but now, this seems like the most effortless thing to do.

Tony is staring back up at him, so intense he seems intent to make up for all those times when he refused to look at Steve as if it might burn him, scar him forever; now it’s as though looking at Steve is everything that has ever mattered to him, everything that has ever had any consequence at all in the world, like Steve is the solution to every problem, the answer to every question, the cure for all his aches. Being the focus of this kind of attention makes Steve’s head spin.

He resumes pushing into Tony, very slowly, still lost in Tony’s eyes, in this infinite moment where nothing matters except them, their eyes meeting, their souls melting into one. When Steve bottoms out Tony lets out a sob, and a few more tears spill freely from the corner of his eye and down his temple, in his hair, on the pillow. Steve leans down, kisses Tony’s face, kisses his tears, his mouth. Tony kisses back and it feels like that now he has started he never wants to stop.

Tony places one hand on Steve’s bicep, meaning  _move_ , and Steve does. He starts slow, letting Tony get used to it, pulls almost all the way out and then pushes back in, over and over again, with heavily controlled movements. The air catches in Tony’s chest, he gasps a few times, Steve keeps looking at him because he loves him, because he wants to make sure all Tony’s reactions come from pleasure and not pain or discomfort. Tony seems to not care either way, like he would take anything right now as long as it comes from Steve, and this level of trust scares Steve for a moment, makes him feel unworthy and unfit, undeserving, like it’s inevitable that he’s going to screw this up eventually and betray it, betray  _Tony_ , until-

“St– Steve,” Tony grunts, and just like before Steve feels like Tony’s making a huge effort to drive those words out, but he’s still hell-bent on doing it. His Iron Man, through and through.

“I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I’ve– I’ve got you, too.”

There he is, the golden avenger to the rescue, always ready to catch Steve when he falls, whether it is from a high building or in a dark pool of self-doubt and fear. Steve strokes Tony’s hair, kisses him again, a way to say  _thank you_ more than anything else.

He suddenly wonders if the rhythm of his thrusts is good to Tony, if he likes to be fucked the same way he likes to fuck, hard and fast and rough. Before Steve has time to decide and do something, Tony croaks, “M-more lube, please?” and Steve doesn’t need to be told twice: he palms at the mattress to retrieve the bottle, sits up, uncaps it, aims, squirts a good amount of lube right on his dick, and proceeds to fuck it right into Tony. Tony seems to be left speechless by Steve’s actions, but then he moans so loudly Steve wonders if someone is gonna hear them from the gym, three floors down, soundproofed walls be damned.

“Ah– faster,” Tony says, so the answer to Steve’s question is:  _yes_.

Steve speeds up, and with his thrusts Tony’s breath quickens too, every push of Steve’s hips matched by a moan. He’s so loud. Steve is so happy.

Steve braces himself on the bed, his hand right next Tony’s head. Tony grabs his wrist and squeezes, and Steve fucks into him faster, and harder, and as rough and careful as he can be at the same time.

Tony screams. Steve swallows it all in a kiss and comes, hard, deep inside Tony, all his love and care and affection gather in his lower belly and transform into a shock of energy that runs through him head to toe, makes his muscles spasm and shake uncontrollably, his vision goes white and he distantly feels Tony’s short nails scratch at his back, his other hand still tight around Steve’s wrist.

Steve comes around, the fog slowly clearing from his head, and he sits up, pulls out of Tony inch by inch. He looks at Tony’s lap and his dick isn’t as soft as before, but it’s not even half-hard. Tony looks down at himself.

“Yeah, that’s. That’s normal. Just give me a minute, ‘kay?” Steve nods, wonders if he can touch Tony or it would be too much. “Can I touch you?” he asks, because there’s no point in not doing it. Tony makes a gesture with his hand.

Steve slides down the bed, between Tony’s legs, hooks one arm around Tony’s thigh and places the other on Tony’s groin, thumbs at his balls, and with deliberate movements takes Tony’s soft dick into his mouth.

Tony emits a pitiful whine, shudders, but not in a way that tells Steve he wants him to stop. Steve sucks delicately, lets saliva trickle down past his lips, bobs his head up and down and feels one of the most incredible things he has ever felt, possibly even better than coming inside Tony just now: he feels Tony’s dick become hard in his mouth.

And seriously: he can’t believe Tony trusts him this much that he would share  _this_ with him, this awkward confession about himself, this shameful and embarrassing weakness, this humiliating sign of age and change and mortality.

But the only thing Steve can really think is:  _I hope one day he will do the same for me, I hope we will reach that day together, I hope we will still want to do this, in any way we can. I hope we will still be in love._ It makes him tear up.

Steve frees his hand from under Tony’s thigh and catches Tony’s hand in his own, holds onto him, now, and for as long as Tony will let him. Slowly, Steve starts stroking Tony’s pubic hair, his balls, slides down to thumb in circles at his perineum, and when he feels like Tony is truly losing it, Steve pushes two fingers inside him, meeting no resistance at all, lube and his own come gushing out of Tony, coating Steve’s hand, making a mess of his sheets.

Steve establishes a fast rhythm with his head, just the way he knows Tony likes it, hollows his cheeks and sucks hard, keeps his teeth covered with his lips, uses every trick he knows, everything he has picked up from Tony or looked up on the internet; he doesn’t stop fucking Tony with his fingers, and after a while Tony lets out a long, guttural groan, ripped off from deep in his chest, and comes down Steve’s throat, while Steve has to keep Tony’s legs still, so he doesn’t kick Steve or hurts himself while he shakes, violently, tears streaming down his face. Mindless of Tony’s come dripping down his chin, Steve crawls up on top of Tony, careful not to crush him with his weight but still determined to hold him through the aftershock of his orgasm. It takes minutes before Tony comes down from the rush, and he’s still oversensitive when Steve tries to stroke his arm, but he smiles sweetly at Steve, one eye open and the other closed, and curls up with his head under Steve’s armpit, happy, sated, blissed-out.

Steve knows from the rhythm of his breathing that Tony isn’t asleep, and after a few minutes of silence and overthinking he decides that he’s gonna ask Tony, after all.

“So you didn’t kiss me, before, because…?”

“’Cause if I started I’d never stop. It’d have felt too real. Harder to pretend it was just sex.”

“Real clever. You must be a really smart guy.”

“Well. I’m Mr. Big Brain.”

Steve tips Tony’s head up with a finger under his chin, and kisses him.

–

Steve is in his room, gathering the last of his clothes. He hasn’t slept here in months, but moving all his stuff to the penthouse has been a slow process, even though he doesn’t even own that much stuff.

He empties his drawers, and when he reaches the last one – the one that used to contain all his socks but now only has the old ones he always avoids wearing because the elastic band is loose after washing them too many times but he can’t decide to throw them away – he realizes that something is missing.

His secret sketchbook isn’t there anymore. He panics for a moment, then remembers where he left it the last time. He looks around, and there it is, under the bed, fallen there from under his pillow through the space between the mattress and the headboard. He picks it up with a smile on his face.

He’s gonna show it to Tony later.

**Author's Note:**

> [on tumblr](http://silkspectred.tumblr.com/post/162795426900/love-the-sin-love-the-sinner)


End file.
